Epitaph

Here lies who lov'd his glass, and sung, and play'd:
The Muse with Love and Fancy he caress'd;
Was in the lap of Joy and Beauty laid,
By Wit enliven'd, and with feelings blest:
Adversity, with cheerful spirit brav'd—
Nor felt a moment's pain unless to find,
That many an hour his arm no friend had sav'd,
His love no mistress in its chains could bind.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.